


Resilience

by iimpavid, voidteatime



Series: unfinished duet [4]
Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Art Block, Developing Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Other, Peter Nureyev's Alias Catalog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-25 01:26:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22087774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iimpavid/pseuds/iimpavid, https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidteatime/pseuds/voidteatime
Summary: Artblock is never easy to deal with.
Relationships: Peter Nureyev/Original Character(s)
Series: unfinished duet [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564903
Kudos: 8





	Resilience

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Juno Steel and the Portrait of Zarathustra](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22357030) by [voidteatime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidteatime/pseuds/voidteatime). 



> We'll get around to finishing The Portrait of Aster Wright eventually but for now? We're just gonna skip around some more.

The house in Hyperion City is luxuriously outfitted and secure in ways that are entirely to do with Hieron’s status as a Kanagawa employee. It’s a lucky thing that Peter has a key. The one time he’d broken in hadn’t been easy and in the intervening years he’d gently nudged Hieron toward better surveillance choices to make sure the few openings he'd exploited were gone. Their house key was one of the precious few things he kept in the duffel bag that he dropped by the elevator entrance (and there it would stay for as long as he did— then he would pick it up on his way away.) 

He strode through the penthouse in Aster Wright's favorite shoes (white leather with gold spiked heels), his open coat (red brocade) billowing around him. He tried to always wear Aster when visiting them; no one had put his face in the tabloids yet but it was better to be consistent with his stylings, just in case. 

Cheerful and bright he called, " _Hieron_! I've arrived!" 

There came no answering shout but all the lights were on. They were here somewhere. 

One of their hounds padded out on silicone paws to greet him. He crouched delicately so he could be at eye level with it. He knew it was a robot, that it didn't actually have an emotional response to his getting on its level and stroking gently along its neck plating, but it wasn't attacking him and if it had any kind of trainable associations, he wanted it to associate him with affection.

"Are you Rothko or Duchamp? I have no idea-- but that’s not important. Have you been taking care of Hieron? Yes? Very good. Keep it up. They're worth at least a hundred of you."

The hound's tail wagged, indicating to him that it understood nothing beyond his tone or else it agreed with the sentiment. 

He tucked his shoes under the coffee table and shucked off his coat. Hieron's floors were always warm; he suspected they had heating run through them and was faintly jealous of the luxury.

It was in the middle of their studio that he found Hieron, sat before a blank canvas in a tense stillness. The solarium was dark and its myriad plants, a veritable jungle of them across every flat surface that wasn't dedicated to supplies or storage, loomed, teeming in the shadows.

"There you are, darling," he sighed, more relieved than he'd care to admit. He encroached on their space to kiss their temple. Their freshly-pink hair had gone dense with grease; they’d been in the studio for a while, then. Maybe more than a day.

It took them a few breaths to turn into him, to blink blearily back and respond, "Hello, Aster," with an offering of something that might have been misconstrued by a camera as a smile.

Peter's brow furrowed. "This one giving you trouble?" 

"... You might say that." 

"Would a break help?" 

They turned back to their empty work. "No." It's as brusque a dismissal as anything.

"... Alright. I'll just... have a bath. If you need anything, shout, I won't be far." 

Hieron lifted a shoulder in a distracted shrug. 

* * *

Peter had his bath. In Hieron's massive soaking tub no less, filled to the brim with steaming water and sharp-scented oils that probably cost far more than he would ever spend himself. He didn't particularly enjoy it. 

He went back to check on Hieron -- and they hadn't moved an inch. "Have you thought about dinner, darling? It seems like a good night to order in," he suggested.

Hieron shrugged-- both shoulders this time.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” 

“I will be. I just. I need to paint.” 

* * *

Peter ordered in.

“I’ll only… be a minute,” Hieron told him. They had begun chewing at their thumb nail, staring at the canvas and looking like they were going to develop a permanent wrinkle between their eyebrows.

He sat with Rothko (or maybe Duchamp) on the sofa until the food he bought on Hieron’s card went cold.

“I think you should call it a night, darling, you can’t possibly be comfortable--"

“I told you. I just need to paint. To paint it out. Go away.”

“That’s my point-- you aren’t. So maybe--” 

“Yes, _thank you_ for your keen observation, _Aster_.” They sounded disgusted. A venom he hadn’t heard from them before leeched into their voice. 

They scrubbed their hands through their hair, a frenetic and furious gesture. “Just _paint_ , Hieron, it can’t be that hard, Hieron. You _are_ the painter, after all. You’re _the_ Hieron! You’re a star! It’s the only thing you’re good for-- and if you can’t do it, well, who are you? Not Hieron, that’s for damn sure! You’re nothing!”

A few pieces began to slot into place. A fundamental part of Peter wanted, very suddenly, to know who had fed these words to Hieron and, more importantly, where they lived. “That isn't true, Hieron.” 

“Yes, it is! I’m nothing but a sad kid with a sad dad, with a sad dream to make art, who got offered a silver spoon and deep throated it so hard it left scars!”

Taken aback, he tried for levity, “Well, I suppose that’s a step up from _nothing_ , but that’s still not--”

They scoffed and spat, “What would you know about it? You’re too afraid to be anything at all! You’re nothing, too!” 

Peter sucked in a breath.

Hieron looked away, their jaw working and tense. 

Something unnecessary in him drew shut. “You’re right. I am.” 

It clearly wasn’t the response they expected. Their lowered their head into their hands and let out a despairing sound that gave him goosebumps. “ _Please, leave me alone_.” 

“No.” 

They raked their fingers down their face, slow, nails sharp and catching. And when they ran out of face to claw they wrapped their arms around themself. Peter, at a loss, sat down on the floor at their feet. It is, admittedly, a more dramatic gesture than he’d’ve preferred but there was not an abundance of seating in Hieron’s studio. It wasn’t a place for spectating. 

They stared at him, guarded, fingers dug into the scant meat of their arms. 

“I’m not afraid of you, Hieron.”

“What if you should be?”

“There are a lot of things that I should be and I’ve never been very good at being any them.”

“This always happens.” 

“Alright.” 

“It’ll keep happening.” 

“Alright.” 

Angry again, “Is that _all_ you can say?” 

“I came back to see you; you aren’t going to get rid of me so easily.”

They sat in silence for a bit, then. Peter, worried and waiting, and Hieron, breathing like it hurt them to do it, both of them adrift in the green and moonlit sea of the solarium. Finally, with the softness of glass cracking under stress and heat, Hieron told him, “You don’t understand. I have to make _something_ , I have to, or else I don’t exist.” 

Peter pushed himself up. A look of hurt or fury flashed across Hieron’s face-- but he wasn’t leaving. He crossed the studio to a wrought iron planter and dragged it into Hieron’s field of view. It’s a viney monstrosity, too large for its pot, with star-shaped flowers the size of his hand in brilliant red and soft spots of luminescence at their centers. “There.”

“Neptaestrum reginae,” they supplied, deeply confused.

“You have something to paint,” he said by way of explanation. 

Their laugh bubbled out of their chest and keeps bubbling until it bordered on hysteria. Peter frowned.

“I could never sell a-- a fucking _amaryllis_ ,” they gasped, desperate to try to catch their breath.

“You don’t have to sell it.” 

That startled them to stillness again. They looked from the plant to him. “It would be a waste of paint.” 

“Then use pencil.” 

“Do you _really_ think it’s that easy?” 

“I wouldn’t know the first thing about it… but you could try.” 

They chew on some stubborn hurt a few seconds more. “Give me an hour? If I don’t come down then you can drag me out,” they added at the look on his face, “I promise.” 

* * *

Hieron is, in many ways, their father’s child and they aren’t proud when they catch edges of him in their eyes. They remember too well what he was like. How impossible it was to get through to Sev when the tar in his chest overspilled his self-control and found its way onto every clean surface and nothing, absolutely nothing Hieron offered him could stopper it.

At least they didn’t throw and break things. Sev threw things. Never _at_ Lethe, true, but the studio at home could be such a mess at times. 

Hieron didn’t throw things.

The amaryllis settled them. Either the act of drawing it-- a light study for private practice, only that and nothing more-- or the fact of its blooming and the sedative fabled to exist in its pollen. 

They caught Aster in the living room as he was standing up to stretch and yawn in the middle of some documentary stream or other and hugged him. Pressed their face to his chest and breathed slowly against him. He made a startled, pleased noise. His arms wound around them just as tightly. They entertained the thought of how nice it might be to exist on the inside of his ribcage mired in all the softness he hid away there. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“I forgive you.” He said it like it was easy.

“I don’t want you to go away yet.”

“I’m not going to.”

“And I didn’t mean it; you’re not nothing, Aster.” 

“I know; neither are you.” 

They’re too tired, just then, to argue the point. “I need to shower.” 

He hummed, “Alright,” and pressed a kiss into the top of their head like their greasy hair didn’t bother him at all. He didn’t let go until they did.

* * *

They showered. They didn’t enjoy it particularly much but it was an improvement to be clean. To be able to run their hands through their hair again without it sticking, heavy, to itself like clay.

It was very late or very early and Aster sat up with the hounds waiting for them, dark eyes attentive and calm as they reheated the food he’d ordered hours ago and plated it for the both of them: another apology. 

The two of them sat together pressed shoulder to hip and let the documentary play-- the Apophic era of Neptunian civilization was always a favorite topic-- while they ate. (When presented with the opportunity Aster always ordered from the same Brahmese restaurant; a hole in the wall that somehow managed to get its ingredients fresh, all the way from Brahma. Or so the advertisement in the window read. Neither of them knew if it was true but he ordered from them anyway and Hieron wondered if it wasn’t because he was homesick. Regardless, the companionate quiet that drew between them was fragile and warm and neither of them cared to break it.)

After, Aster took the plates to the kitchen for the maid to deal with in the morning and Hieron turned off the stream and... didn’t move from the sofa. They weren’t sure they could. Not yet. 

He came back to them, though. Sat beside them and failed at not looking worried until Hieron gave him something very close to a real smile. Sad but soft around the eyes and genuine. 

“I need to tell you about my father.” 

Aster took their hand and listened.

**Author's Note:**

> Listen to me very closely: your comments act as positive reinforcement for writing thus leading to more writing. Comment on the fics you read.


End file.
